Guns
by Jazzola
Summary: It's Quinn's decision. Not Mackenzie's, not Angelo's. But Quinn doesn't realise that.


Quinn knew, in a corner of his mind, that Mackenzie wouldn't shoot him.

He knew that dead bodies were a nuisance. María's had been bad enough, slumped in the water like some kind of mangled mermaid; she'd undoubtedly draw attention sooner or later. And Dominic? He wasn't quite sure, but if there was a corpse to be found, then that would be on the police radar as well. They'd be looking for them.

His dead body… a British national, clearly murdered, on a different island to the one he had initially travelled to. No documents, but they'd figure it out sooner or later, and then… then all hell would break loose. There would be forensic evidence, ballistics, everything that could be needed. People would hear, see. They were in a fucking campsite, after all.

He couldn't say he wasn't scared. The gun was so cold, so unforgiving, on his overheated skin, sliding over his scalp as he panted softly, the sound filling the caravan. He didn't mind dying, but being killed… that he could do without. All the pain, and blood, and gore. He wasn't naïve enough to think that Mackenzie would make it quick, or painless. After all the- trouble- they'd put him to, he'd want Quinn's death to be as undignified and horrible as possible. That was pretty obvious in the stormy expression in the man's face. He didn't mess around, so long as it wasn't fun anymore. The glint in his eye told Quinn that Mackenzie wasn't amused.

Was Mackenzie a killer? Quinn had little doubt as to that. Someone who could hold a gun to someone else's head like Mackenzie was, without a single shudder in the fingers, so steady and confident, must have done it before, must have pulled the trigger before. And drugs barons didn't exactly go around raising money for charity and hugging small children, did they? The very concept of Mackenzie doing anything for the good of anyone but himself made a wry smile twist Quinn's lips.

"You laughing at me?"

"Yes."

Those eyes. Cold, steely, and yet once, once they could have been… kindly. Twinkling. Just once. A soft blue that would once have comforted someone.

Only now, they were hardened by years, determination, sociopathy. Hardening further at Quinn's impertinent answer.

"Watch your mouth."

Angelo stepped forwards, his hand reaching out; Mackenzie put his own up. _Don't._ Disappointed, Angelo stepped away, growling deep in his throat, his dark eyes flitting up and down Quinn's body.

"They're not going to make it."

Quinn clenched his fists under the table, fighting the urge to run for it. He wouldn't be the only casualty if he did that. Baxter, Woody, Rick… yeah, OK, the last one could be the world's biggest prick, and a tiny part of his mind argued that he'd be doing Nina a favour getting him killed, but at the same time, Rick was his friend, and he had to stay loyal to him… didn't he? Would Rick do the same?

God, this was so complicated. Quinn let himself slump in his seat, closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds, letting himself breathe deeply to dispel the panic that Mackenzie's patience would run out. The gun brushed his eyelid, sliding down his face, coming to rest on his cheekbone, kissing his skin.

"They're not coming, Quinn. They've gone home and left you here. Or they're too late. Makes no odds either way, because they haven't held up their end of the deal."

Mackenzie's voice was strangely comforting, low and gravelly. Quinn opened his eyes, letting them meet Angelo's, delighting in keeping Mackenzie waiting until he deigned to look round at him, finding several interesting chips on the wall of the caravan before he did.

"Give me one good reason why I should spare your life."

Was he hoping for some kind of rebellion? A plea, begging, tears? No. A man had to have some dignity, and right now, dignity was all Quinn had. The last weapon in his pretty insufficient armory, and Christ, he wasn't about to waste it, not now, when it might be the last thing he ever had.

He leaned forwards, pressing his cheek against the muzzle of the gun. The table jutted into his stomach, the scruffy seating slowly reinflating behind him. A young child laughed somewhere in the distance. All his senses were heightened, as though trying to fit in a lifetime of feeling into his last few moments, cram in as much as they could manage to make up for being cut short. Some kind of rebirth, just as he was about to…

Just as Mackenzie pulled the gun back and pushed Quinn back into the upholstery.

"I knew I should've kept one of the others behind. Not the soppy blond one."

Christ. A blond joke, now, of all times? Quinn had to bite his tongue to stop himself scoffing, determinedly keeping his gaze on the gun, his fists clenched. His nails bit into his palm, and the pain made his mind focus. The gun was gone, but the others hadn't arrived yet, and he would've heard anything coming towards them, even footsteps. So what the hell…?

Mackenzie dropped his fingers to his lap, turned the gun over in his hands, wrinkled fingers playing on the metallic sheen. Angelo stepped forwards, confusion on his face, but once again Mackenzie held a hand up and he stalled, his lips thinning in disgust.

"You know how to hold a gun."

It wasn't a question, and Quinn didn't answer. His gaze remained on the elderly Formica table, over where the gun would be; Mackenzie smiled, no mirth in his expression, just a sickening apathy that made Quinn's stomach clench.

"So hold it."

He retrieved his fingers from under the table, holding the gun by the muzzle, and extended the handle towards Quinn, the dead smile still on his face.

Offering him the gun.

Quinn lifted his own hand, glancing down at it, as though to ascertain that it was under his control and hadn't been corrupted by Mackenzie's influence.

Then he reached out and took the gun.

"Put it to your head."

He complied.

"You do know the safety catch is off?"

As though something like that could escape Quinn's attention.

"Yes."

"What are you going to do with it?"

It would have been a no-brainer a few days ago, hell, even a few hours ago. He would have put the catch on and flung the thing as far away as he could manage, somehow disposed of it, as though it would contaminate him should he have it anywhere in his vicinity. But Mackenzie had made Quinn think, kicked on the process started by Alvo so long ago. His life comprised of two daughters who barely spoke to him, one estranged wife who had tried to claim he'd raped her, a car, a mortgage, and a job. Was that even a life? Where was the excitement, the glamour, even the pleasure? God, once he'd been something special, promising, attractive, but now… a washed-out old ruin. A murderer to boot. Something disgusting, something that would revile even the nutter he'd share the cell of in prison. Did he have a life anymore, or just the remnants of one?

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Mackenzie's eyes flashed.

What was he doing? About to blow his own brains out on this bastard's say-so? What had Mackenzie done? Ruined lives, murdered people, grown fat and idle on the misery of hundreds. Led all of their lives into one long waking nightmare. Who said _he _could be the authority on whether Quinn lived or died? Whether he blew himself to kingdom come, after all he'd done to survive, murdered himself just because this man said it was good to do so?

Fuck that.

And then.

His finger was about to go into spasm. Now or never.

Mackenzie leaned forwards, just enough for the light to catch on the glint of teeth through his lips. _Devil's fangs._

Quinn turned and threw the gun straight through the window to Mackenzie's right.

The crash of splintering glass made even Mackenzie jump, and the yells that accompanied it made Quinn leap up as though scalded.

The gun had gone straight through the windscreen of the van, and onto the lap of Rick, who was currently screaming loud enough to wake the dead as he seized the gun in both hands and flung it as far as he could manage.

"The safety's not on!" Quinn yelled.

The crack of the gunshot proved his point.

The suffocating silence that followed was broken only by the thud of Angelo's lifeless body slumping to the floor of the caravan, blood pouring from his dark curly hair, soaking into the oatmeal carpet.

* * *

A/N: I've no idea where this came from. All I know is that I would absolutely love to write the fourth series of MD, but I doubt they'll let me, so I have to settle for fanfiction. Hey, well, if they don't know talent when they see it… :P Thanks for reading, and please, please remember to review! Jazzola :D


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